s  V 


SOUTHERf; 

UNIVERSITY  OF  > 

LISRA.v/ 

■  OS    ANGF,l>''=    ^"^'  "^ 


BOOKS  BY  RUDYARD  KIPLING 

Traffics  and  Discoveries 

The  Five  Nations 

The  Just  So  Song  Book 

Just  So  Stories 

Kim 

Stalky  &  Co. 

The  Day's  Work 

Thf.  Brushwood  Boy 

From  Sea  to  Sea 

Departmental   Ditties  and    Ballads  and 

Barrack-Room  Ballads 
Plain  Tales  From  the  Hills 
The  Light  That  Failed 
Life's  Handicap:   Being   Stories  of  Mine   Ovi^n 

People 
Under  the   Deodars,  The   Phantom  'Rickshaw^ 

AND  Wee  Willie  Winkie 
Soldiers   Three,    The    Story    of   the  Gadsbys, 

AND  In  Black  and  White 
Soldier  Stories 
The  Kipling  Birthday  Book 
(With  Wolcott  Balestier)  The  Naulahka 


^  h* 


1  LiU.N   1'    U.\UW    WIIAl     i    SUtJUI.U    llAVli   LloMi    WITHOUT    TAI.I.II-:: 


"J'HKY' 

BY 

RUDYARD  KIPLING 

With  Illustrations  by  F.  H.  Tonvnstnd 

C^  »./  *.j  \)  - 

NEW  YORK 

DOUBLEDAY,  PAGE  &  COMPANY 

1909 

Copyright,  1904,  1905,  1906,  by 

Rudyard  Kipling 

Published,  October,  1906 

All  rights  reserved, 

including  that  of  translation  into  foreign  languages, 

including  the  Scandinavian 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 

I  don't  know  what  I  should   have  done  without 
tallies  *  (p.  68)       ....         Frontispiece 

FOLLOWING   PAGE 

She  turned  and  made  as  though  looking  about  her     13 

He  fled  at  our  approach 17 

I  swerved  amply  lest  the  devil  that  leads  little  boys 

to  play  should  drag  me  into  child-murder         .     24 

It  was  a  trap  to  catch  all  childhood,  for  on  such  a 
day,  I  argued,  the  children  would  not  be  far 
ofF 29 

*  Why  you've  arranged  them  like  playing  shop!'     .     33 

The  woman  flung  her  apron  over  her  head  and  lit- 
erally grovelled  in  the  dust       ,         .         .         •     42 

I  saw  the  Doctor  come  out  of  the  cottage  followed 

by  a  draggle-tailed  wench        .         .         .         -47 

At  last  a  white-haired  lady  sitting  under  a  cedar 

of  Lebanon     .......     5° 

*  I  dunno  but  it  opens  de  'eart  like.     Yes,  it  opens 

de'eart' 55 

*  This  is  one  of  their  rooms — everything  ready,  you 

see' 62 


'THEY' 

PACK 

They  must  have  slipped  down  while  we  were  In  the 

passages  . 65 

*  Would  you  like  a  lamp  to  see  to  eat  by  ?'      .         .     67 

The  little  brushing  kiss  fell  in  the  centre  of   my 

palm        . -74 

*  And  yet  they  love  me.   They  mustl  Don't  they  ?'     78 


THE  RETURN  OF  THE  CHILDREN 


Neither  the  harps  nor  the   crowns    amused,  nor  the 

cherubs'  dove-wingeJ  races — 
Holding  hands  forlornly  the  Children  wandered  beneath 

the  Dome; 
Plucking  the  radiant  robes  of  the  passers-by,  and  with 

pitiful  faces 
Begging    what    Princes    and     Powers    refused: — 'Ah, 

please  will  you  let  us  go  home  ?' 

Over  the  jewelled  floor,   nigh   weeping,   ran   to   them 

Mary  the  Mother, 
Kneeled  and  caressed  and  made  promise  with  kisses, 

and  drew  them  along  to  the  gateway — 
Yea,  the  all-iron  unbribeable  Door  which  Peter  must 

guard  and  none  other — 
Straightway  She  took  the  Keys  from  his  keeping,  and 

opened  and  freed  them  straightway. 

Then  to  Her  Son,  Who  had  seen  and  smiled.  She  said: 

*  On  the  night  that  I  bore  Thee, 
What    didst   Thou    care  for  a  love  beyond  mine  or  a 

heaven  that  was  not  my  arm  ? 
Didst   Thou    push    from  the  nipple,  O  Child,  to  hear 

the  angels  adore  Thee  ? 
When   we    two  lay  in  the  breath  of  the  kine  ? '     And 

He  said: — 'Thou  hast  done  no  harm.' 


So    through    the    Void    the   Children   ran    homeward 

merrily  hand  in  hand. 
Looking  neither  to  left  nor  right  where  the  breathless 

Heavens  stood  still; 
And  the  Guards  of  the  Void  resheathed  their  swords, 

for  they  heard  the  Command: 
'Shall  I  that  have  suffered  the  children  to  come  to  me 

hold  them  against  their  will  ? ' 


'THEY' 

"One  view  called  me  to  another;  one 
hill  top  to  its  fellow,  half  across  the 
county,  and  since  I  could  answer  at  no 
more  trouble  than  the  snapping  forward 
of  a  lever,  I  let  the  county  flow  under 
my  wheels.  The  orchid-studded  flats 
of  the  East  gave  way  to  the  thyme,  ilex, 
and  grey  grass  of  the  Downs;  these 
again  to  the  rich  cornland  and  fig-trees 
of  the  lower  coast,  where  you  carry  the 
beat  of  the  tide  on  your  left  hand  for 
fifteen  level  miles;  and  when,  at  last, 
I  turned  inland  through  a  huddle  of 
rounded  hills  and  woods  I  had  run  my- 
self   clean   out    of    my    known    marks. 

7 


THEY'  8 

Beyond  that  precise  hamlet  which  stands 
godmother  to  the  capital  of  the  United 
States,  I  found  hidden  villages  where 
bees,  the  only  things  awake,  boomed  in 
eighty-foot  lindens  that  overhung  grey 
Norman  churches;  miraculous  brooks 
diving  under  stone  bridges  built  for 
heavier  traffic  than  would  ever  vex  them 
again;  tithe-barns  larger  than  their 
churches,  and  an  old  smithy  that  cried 
out  aloud  how  it  had  once  been  a  hall 
of  the  Knights  of  the  Temple.  Gipsies 
I  met  on  a  common  where  the  gorse, 
brackens,  and  heath  fought  it  out  to- 
gether up  a  mile  of  Roman  road;  and 
a  little  farther  on  I  disturbed  a  red  fox 
rolling  dog-fashion  in  the  naked  sun- 
light. 

As  the  wooded  hills  closed  about  me 
I  stood  up  in  the  car  to  take  the  bear- 
ings of  that  great  Down  whose  ringed 
head  is  a  landmark  for  fifty  miles  across 


'THEY'  9 

the  low  countries.  I  judged  that  the 
lie  of  the  country  would  bring  me  across 
some  westward-running  road  that  went 
to  his  feet,  but  I  did  not  allow  for  the 
confusing  veils  of  the  woods.  A  quick 
turn  plunged  me  first  into  a  green  cut- 
ting brim-full  of  liquid  sunshine;  next 
into  a  gloomy  tunnel  where  last  year's 
dead  leaves  whispered  and  scuffled 
about  my  tyres.  The  strong  hazel  stuff 
meeting  overhead  had  not  been  cut  for 
a  couple  of  generations  at  least,  nor  had 
any  axe  helped  the  moss-cankered  oak 
and  beech  to  spring  above  them.  Here 
the  road  changed  frankly  into  a  carpeted 
ride  on  whose  brown  velvet  spent 
primrose- clumps  showed  like  jade,  and 
a  few  sickly,  white-stalked  blue-bells 
nodded  together.  As  the  slope  favoured 
I  shut  off  the  power  and  slid  over  the 
whirled  leaves,  expecting  every  moment 
to  meet  a   keeper;  but   I   only  heard  a 


'THEY'  lo 


jay,  far  off,  arguing  against  the  silence 
under  the  twilight  of  the  trees. 

Still  the  track  descended.  I  was  on  the 
point  of  reversing  and  working  my  way 
back  as  best  I  could  ere  I  ended  in  some 
swamp,  when  I  saw  sunshine  through 
the  tangle  ahead  and  lifted  the  brake. 

It  was  down  again  at  once.  As  the 
light  beat  across  my  face  my  fore- wheels 
took  the  turf  of  a  smooth  still  lawn  from 
which  sprang  horsemen  ten  feet  high 
with  levelled  lances,  monstrous  peacocks, 
and  sleek  round-headed  maids  of  honour 
— blue,  black,  and  glistening — all  of 
clipped  yew.  Across  the  lawn — the  mar- 
shalled woods  besieged  it  on  three  sides 
— stood  an  ancient  house  of  lichened  and 
weather-worn  stone,  with  mullioned  win- 
dows and  roofs  of  rose-red  tile.  It  was 
flanked  by  semi-circular  walls,  also  rose- 
red,  that  closed  the  lawn  to  the  fourth 
side,  and  at  their  feet  a  box  hedge  grew 


'THEY'  II 

man-high.  There  were  doves  on  the 
roof  about  the  shm  brick  chimneys,  and 
I  caught  a  glimpse  of  an  octagonal  dove- 
house  behind  the  screening  wall. 

Here,  then,  I  stayed;  a  horseman's 
green  spear  laid  at  my  breast;  held  by 
the  exceeding  beauty  of  that  jewel  in 
that  setting. 

'If  I  am  not  packed  off  for  a  trespasser, 
or  if  this  knight  does  not  ride  a  wallop 
at  me, '  thought  I,  'Shakespeare  and 
Queen  Elizabeth  will  come  out  of  that 
half-open  garden  door  and  ask  me  to 
tea. ' 

A  child  appeared  at  an  upper  window, 
and  I  thought  the  little  thing  waved  a 
friendly  hand.  But  it  was  to  call  a  com- 
panion, for  presently  another  bright 
head  showed.  Then  I  heard  a  laugh 
among  the  yew-peacocks,  and  turning  to 
make  sure  (till  then  I  had  been  watching 
the  house  only)  saw  the  silver  of  a  foun- 


'THEY'  12 

tain  behind  a  hedge  thrown  up  against 
the  sun.  The  doves  on  the  roof  cooed 
to  the  cooing  water;  but  between  the 
two  notes  I  caught  the  utterly  happy 
chuckle  of  a  child  absorbed  in  some 
light  mischief. 

The  garden  door — heavy  oak  sunk  deep 
in  the  thickness  of  the  wall — opened 
further:  a  woman  in  a  big  garden  hat 
set  her  foot  slowly  on  the  time-hollowed 
stone  steps  and  slowly  walked  across 
the  turf.  I  was  forming  some  apology 
when  she  lifted  her  head  and  I  saw  that 
she  was  blind. 

'I  heard  you, '  she  said.  'Isn't  that 
a  motor  car?' 

'I'm  afraid  I've  made  a  mistake  in  my 
road.  I  should  have  turned  off  up 
above — I  never  dreamed '  I  began. 

'But  I'm  very  glad.  Fancy  a  motor 
car  coming  into  the  garden!  It  will  be 
such  a  treat '  She  turned  and  made 


SHE   TURNF.D    AND    MADK  AS   THOUGH    LOOKINCi    AIJOUT    HER. 


'THEY'  14 

as  though  looking  about  her.  'You — 
you  haven't  seen  any  one,  have  you — 
perhaps  ? ' 

'No  one  to  speak  to,  but  the  children 
seemed  interested  at  a  distance. ' 

'Which?' 

'I  saw  a  couple  up  at  the  window  just 
now,  and  I  think  I  heard  a  little  chap  in 
the  grounds. ' 

'Oh,  lucky  you!'  she  cried,  and  her 
face  brightened.  'I  hear  them,  of  course, 
but  that's  all.  You've  seen  them  and 
heard  them?' 

'Yes, '  I  answered.  'And  if  I  know 
anything  of  children,  one  of  them's 
having  a  beautiful  time  by  the  fountain 
yonder.     Escaped,  I  imagine. ' 

'Your're  fond  of  children? ' 

I  gave  her  one  or  two  reasons  why  I 
did  not  altogether  hate  them. 

'Of  course,  of  course, '  she  said.  'Then 
you  understand.     Then  you  won't  think 


•THEY'  15 

it  foolish  if  I  ask  you  to  take  your 
car  through  the  gardens,  once  or  twice 
— quite  slowly?  I'm  sure  they'd  like 
to  see  it.  They  see  so  little,  poor  things. 
One  tries  to  make  their  life  pleasant, 
but '  she  threw  out  her  hands  to- 
wards the  woods.  'We're  so  out  of  the 
world  here. ' 

That  will  be  splendid, '  I  said.  'But 
I  mustn't  cut  up  your  grass. ' 

She  faced  to  the  right.  'Wait  a 
minute, '  said  she.  'We  're  at  the  South 
gate,  aren't  we?  Behind  those  peacocks 
there's  a  flagged  path.  We  call  it  the 
Peacocks  *  Walk.  You  can't  see  it  from 
here,  they  tell  me,  but  if  you  squeeze 
along  by  the  edge  of  the  wood  you  can 
turn  at  the  first  peacock  and  get  on  to 
the  flags. ' 

It  was  sacrilege  to  wake  that  dream- 
ing house-front  with  the  clatter  of  ma- 
chinery, but  I  swung  the  car  to  clear  the 


THEY'  i6 

turf,  brushed  along  the  edge  of  the  wood 
and  turned  in  on  the  broad  stone  path 
where  the  fountain-basin  lay  like  one 
star-sapphire. 

'May  I  come  too?'  she  cried.  'No, 
please  don't  help  me.  They'll  like  it 
better  if  they  see  me. ' 

She  felt  her  way  lightly  to  the  front 
of  the  car,  and  with  one  foot  on  the  step 
she  called:  'Children,  oh,  children!  Look 
and  see  what's  going  to  happen! ' 

The  voice  would  have  drawn  lost  souls 
from  the  Pit,  for  the  yearning  that  under- 
lay its  sweetness,  and  I  was  not  surprised 
to  hear  an  answering  shout  behind  the 
yews.  It  must  have  been  the  child  by 
the  fountain,  but  he  fled  at  our  approach, 
leaving  a  little  toy  boat  in  the  water.  I 
saw  the  glint  of  his  blue  blouse  among 
the  still  horsemen. 

Very  disposedly  we  paraded  the  length 
of  the  walk  and  at  her  request  backed 


HE    FLET)   AT   OUR   API  ROACH. 


iSs 


THEY'  i8 

again.  This  time  the  child  had  got  the 
better  of  his  panic,  but  stood  far  off  and 
doubting. 

'The  Httle  fellow's  watching  us, '  I 
said.     'I  wonder  if  he'd  like  a  ride. ' 

'They're  very  shy  still.  Very  shy. 
But,  oh,  lucky  you  to  be  able  to  see 
them!     Let's  listen. ' 

I  stopped  the  machine  at  once,  and 
the  humid  stillness,  heavy  with  the 
scent  of  box,  cloaked  us  deep.  Shears 
I  could  hear  where  some  gardener  was 
clipping,  a  mumble  of  bees,  and  broken 
voices  that  might  have  been  the  doves. 

'Oh,  unkind!'  she  said  weariedly. 

'Perhaps  they're  only  shy  of  the  motor. 
That  little  maid  at  the  window  looks 
tremendously  interested. ' 

'Yes?'  She  raised  her  head.  'It  was 
wrong  of  me  to  say  that.  They  are 
really  fond  of  me.  It's  the  only  thing 
that    makes    life    worth     living — when 


'THEY'  19 

they're  fond  of  you,  isnt'  it?  I 
daren't  think  what  the  place  would 
be  without  them.  By  the  way,  is  it 
beautiful  ? ' 

'I  think  it  is  the  most  beautiful  place 
I  have  ever  seen. ' 

'So  they  all  tell  me.  I  can  feel  it,  of 
course,  but  that  isn't  quite  the  same 
thing. ' 

'Then  have  you  never ?'  I  be- 
gan, but  stopped  abashed. 

'Not  since  I  can  remember.  It  hap- 
pened when  I  was  only  a  few  months  old, 
they  tell  me.  And  yet  I  must  remember 
something,  else  how  could  I  dream  about 
colours.  I  see  light  in  my  dreams,  and 
colours,  but  I  never  see  them.  I  only 
hear  them,  just  as  I  do  when  I'm 
awake. ' 

'It's  difficult  to  see  faces  in  dreams. 
Some  people  can,  but  most  of  us  haven't 
the  gift, '  I  went  on,  looking  up  at  the 


THEY'  20 

window  where  the  child  stood  all  but 
hidden. 

'I've  heard  that  too,'  she  said.  'And 
they  tell  me  that  one  never  sees  a  dead 
person's  face  in  a  dream.     Is  that  true?' 

'I  believe  it  is — now  I  come  to  think 
of  it. ' 

'But  how  is  it  with  yourself — your- 
self?' The  blind  eyes  turned  towards 
me. 

'I  have  never  seen  the  faces  of  my  dead 
in  any  dream, '  I  answered. 

'Then  it  must  be  as  bad  as  being 
blind. ' 

The  sun  had  dipped  behind  the  woods 
and  the  long  shades  were  possessing  the 
insolent  horsemen  one  by  one.  I  saw 
the  light  die  from  off  the  top  of  a  glossy- 
leaved  lance  and  all  its  brave  hard  green 
turn  to  soft  black.  The  house,  accepting 
another  day  at  end,  as  it  had  accepted 
an   hundred  thousand  gone,   seemed   to 


J 


'THEY'  21 

settle  deeper  into  its  rest  among  the 
shadows. 

'Have  you  ever  wanted  to?'  she  said 
after  the  silence. 

'Very  much  sometimes, '  I  replied. 
The  child  had  left  the  window  as  the 
shadows  shut  upon  it. 

'Ah!     So've   I,    but   I    don't   suppose 

it's   allowed Where   d'you 

live?' 

'Quite  the  other  side  of  the  county 
— sixty  miles  and  more,  and  I  must  be 
going  back.  I've  come  without  my  big 
lamps.' 

'But  it's  not  dark  yet.  I  can 
feel  it.' 

'I'm  afraid  it  will  be  by  the  time  I  get 
home.  Could  you  lend  me  some  one  to 
set  me  on  my  road  at  first?  I've  utterly 
lost  myself. ' 

'I'll  send  Madden  with  you  to  the 
cross-roads.     We  are  so  out  of  the  world, 


^THEY'  22 

I  don't  wonder  you  were  lost.  I'll 
guide  you  round  to  the  front  of  the  house ; 
but  you  will  go  slowly,  won't  you,  till 
you're  out  of  the  grounds?  It  isn't 
foolish,  do  you  think?' 

'I  promise  you  I'll  go  like  this,'  I  said, 
and  let  the  car  start  herself  down  the 
flagged  path. 

We  skirted  the  left  wing  of  the  house, 
whose  elaborately  cast  lead  guttering 
alone  was  worth  a  day's  journey;  passed 
under  a  great  rose-grown  gate  in  the  red 
wall,  and  so  round  to  the  high  front  of 
the  house  which  in  beauty  and  state- 
liness  as  much  excelled  the  back  as  that 
all  others  I  had  seen. 

'Is  it  so  very  beautiful?'  she  said 
wistfully  when  she  heard  my  raptures. 
'And  you  like  the  lead-figures  too? 
There's  the  old  azalea  garden  behind. 
They  say  that  this  place  must  have  been 
made  for   children.     Will  you  help  me 


'THEY '  23 

out,  please?  I  should  like  to  come  with 
you  as  far  as  the  cross-roads,  but 
I  mustn't  leave  them.  Is  that  you, 
Madden?  I  want  you  to  show  this 
gentleman  the  way  to  the  cross-roads. 
He  has  lost  his  way  but — he  has  seen 
them.' 

A  butler  appeared  noiselessly  at  the 
miracle  of  old  oak  that  must  be  called 
the  front  door,  and  slipped  aside  to  put 
on  his  hat.  She  stood  looking  at  me 
with  open  blue  eyes  in  which  no  sight 
lay;  and  I  saw  for  the  first  time  that  she 
was  beautiful. 

'Remember, '  she  said  quietly,  'if 
you  are  fond  of  them  you  will  come 
again, '  and  disappeared  within  the 
house. 

The  butler  in  the  car  said  nothing  till 
we  were  nearly  at  the  lodge  gates,  where 
catching  a  glimpse  of  a  blue  blouse  in  a 
shrubbery  I  swerved  amply  lest  the  devil 


I    SWKRVED    AMPLY    LEST   THE    DEVIL   THAT    LEADS   LITTLE    BOYS   TO    I'l.AY   SHOULD 
DRAt;    ME    INTO    CHILD-.MURDEK. 


THEY'  25 

that  leads  little  boys  to  play  should  drag 
me  into  child-murder. 

'Excuse  me, '  he  asked  of  a  sudden, 
'but  why  did  you  do  that,  Sir? ' 

'The  child  yonder. ' 

'Our  young  gentleman  in  blue?' 

'Of  course. ' 

'He  runs  about  a  good  deal.  Did  you 
see  him  by  the  fountain,  Sir?' 

'Oh,  yes,  several  times.  Do  we  turn 
here?' 

'Yes,  Sir.  And  did  you  'appen  to  see 
them  upstairs  too  ? ' 

'At  the  upper  window?     Yes.' 

'Was  that  before  the  mistress  come 
out  to  speak  to  you.  Sir? ' 

'A  little  before  that.  Why  d'you 
want  to  know?' 

He  paused  a  little.  'Only  to  make 
sure  that — that  they  had  seen  the  car. 
Sir,  because  with  children  running  about, 
though  I'm  sure  you're  driving  partic- 


'THEY'  26 

ularly  careful,  there  might  be  an  accident. 
That  was  all,  Sir.  Here  are  the  cross- 
roads. You  can't  miss  you  way  from 
now  on.  Thank  you.  Sir,  but  that  isn't 
our  custom,  not  with ' 

'I  beg  your  pardon, '  I  said,  and 
thrust  away  the  British  silver. 

'Oh,  it's  quite  right  with  the  rest  of 
'em  as  a  rule.     Good-bye,  Sir. ' 

He  retired  into  the  armour-plated 
conning-tower  of  his  caste  and  walked 
away.  Evidently  a  butler  solicitous 
for  the  honour  of  the  house,  and  in- 
terested, probably  through  a  maid,  in 
its  nursery. 

Once  beyond  the  signposts  at  the 
cross-roads  I  looked  back,  but  the 
crumpled  hills  interlaced  so  jealously 
that  I  could  not  see  where  the  house  had 
lain.  When  I  asked  its  name  at  a  cot- 
tage along  the  road,  the  fat  woman  who 
sold  sweetmeats  there  gave  me  to  under- 


THEY'  27 

stand  that  people  with  motor  cars  have 
small  right  to  live — much  less  to  'go 
about  talking  like  carriage  folk. '  They 
were  not  a  pleasant-mannered  com- 
munity. 

As  I  retraced  my  run  on  the 
map  that  evening  I  was  a  little  wiser. 
Hawkin's  Old  Farm  appeared  to  be 
the  Survey  title  of  the  place,  and  the 
old  County  Gazetteer,  generally  so 
ample,  did  not  allude  to  it.  The  big 
house  of  those  parts  was  Hodnington 
Hall,  Georgian  with  early  Victorian 
embellishments,  as  an  atrocious  steel 
engraving  attested.  I  carried  my  diffi- 
culty to  a  neighbour — a  deep-rooted 
tree  of  that  soil — and  he  gave  me  a 
name  of  a  family  which  conveyed  no 
meaning. 

A  month  or  so  later  I  went  again — 
or  it  may  have  been  that  my  car 
took  the  road  of  her  own  volition.     She 


'THEY'  28 

over-ran  the  fruitless  Downs,  threaded 
every  turn  of  the  maze  of  lanes  below 
the  hills,  drew  through  the  high- walled 
woods,  impenetrable  in  their  full  leaf, 
came  out  at  the  cross-roads  where  the 
butler  had  left  me,  and  a  little  farther 
on  developed  an  internal  trouble  which 
forced  me  to  turn  her  in  on  a  grass 
way- waste  that  cut  into  a  summer- silent 
hazel  wood.  So  far  as  I  could  make 
sure  by  the  sun  and  a  six-inch  Ordnance 
map,  this  should  be  the  road-flank  of 
that  wood  which  I  had  first  explored 
from  the  heights  above.  I  made  a 
mighty  serious  business  of  my  repairs 
and  a  glittering  shop  of  my  repair-kit, 
spanners,  pump,  and  the  like,  which  I 
spread  out  orderly  upon  a  rug.  It  was 
a  trap  to  catch  all  childhood,  for  on 
such  a  day,  I  argued,  the  children  would 
not  be  far  off.  When  I  paused  in  my 
work  I  listened,  but  the  wood  was  so 


IT    W  A>    A    TKAF-    I' 


I    CAICH    At.I.    LHIl.llHi  "  111.     FiU;    1 'N    SICK    A     HAY. 
THE  CHILDREN    WOULD   NOT    BE    FAR  OFF. 


THEY'  30 

full  of  the  noises  of  summer  (though  the 
birds  had  mated)  that  I  could  not  at 
first  distinguish  these  from  the  tread  of 
small  cautious  feet  stealing  across  the 
dead  leaves.  I  rang  my  bell  in  an  allur- 
ing manner,  but  the  feet  fled,  and  I 
repented,  for  to  a  child  a  sudden  noise 
is  very  real  terror.  I  must  have  been 
at  work  half  an  hour  when  I  heard  in 
the  wood  the  voice  of  the  blind  woman 
crying:  'Children,  oh,  children!  Where 
are  you?'  and  the  stillness  made  slow  to 
close  on  the  perfection  of  that  cry.  She 
came  towards  me,  half  feeling  her  way 
between  the  tree-boles,  and  though  a 
child,  it  seemed,  clung  to  her  skirt,  it 
swerved  into  the  leafage  like  a  rabbit  as 
she  drew  nearer. 

'Is  that  you?'  she  said.  'From  the 
other  side  of  the  county?' 

'Yes,  it's  me — from  the  other  side  of 
the  county. ' 


THEY'  31 

'Then  why  didn't  you  come  through 
the  upper  woods?  They  were  there 
just  now. ' 

'They  were  here  a  few  minutes  ago. 
I  expect  they  knew  my  car  had  broken 
down,  and  came  to  see  the  fun. ' 

'Nothing  serious,  I  hope?  How  do 
cars  break  down?' 

'In  fifty  different  ways.  Only  mine 
has  chosen  the  fifty  first. ' 

She  laughed  merrily  at  the  tiny  joke, 
cooed  with  delicious  laughter,  and  pushed 
her  hat  back. 

'Let  me  hear, '  she  said. 

'Wait  a  moment, '  I  cried,  'and  I'll 
get  you  a  cushion. ' 

She  set  her  foot  on  the  rug  all 
covered  with  spare  parts,  and  stooped 
above  it  eagerly.  What  delightful 
things!'  The  hands  through  which  she 
saw  glanced  in  the  chequered  sun- 
light.      'A    box     here — another     box! 


I 


'THEY'  32 

Why  you've  arranged  them  Uke  play- 
ing shop!' 

'I  confess  now  that  I  put  it  out  to 
attract  them.  I  don't  need  half  those 
things  really. ' 

'How  nice  of  you!  I  heard  your  bell 
in  the  upper  wood.  You  say  they  were 
here  before  that?' 

'I'm  sure  of  it.  Why  are  they  so  shy? 
That  little  fellow  in  blue  who  was  with 
you  just  now  ought  to  have  got  over  his 
fright.  He's  been  watching  me  like  a 
Red  Indian. ' 

'It  must  have  been  your  bell, '  she 
said.  'I  heard  one  of  them  go  past  me 
in  trouble  when  I  was  coming  down. 
They're  shy — so  shy  even  with  me. ' 
She  turned  her  face  over  her  shoulder 
and  cried  again:  'Children,  oh,  children! 
Look  and  see ! ' 

'They  must  have  gone  off  together 
on  their  own  affairs, '    I    suggested,   for 


i 


"why   VllU'VE   ARRANGED  THF.M    I.IKE     I'LAYIXG    SIlOl'  !  " 


'THEY'  34 

there  was  a  murmur  behind  us  of 
lowered  voices  broken  by  the  sudden 
squawking  giggles  of  childhood.  I  re- 
turned to  my  tinkerings  and  she  leaned 
forward,  her  chin  on  her  hand,  listening 
interestedly. 

'How  many  are  they?'  I  said  at  last. 
My  work  was  finished,  but  I  saw  no 
reason  to  go. 

Her  forehead  puckered  a  little  in 
thought.  'I  don't  quite  know,  'she  said 
simply.  'Sometimes  more — sometimes 
less.  They  come  and  stay  with  me 
because  I  love  them,  you  see. ' 

'That  must  be  very  jolly, '  I  said,  re- 
placing a  drawer,  and  as  I  spoke  I  heard 
the  inanity  of  my  answer. 

'You — you  aren't  laughing  at  me, ' 
she  cried.  T — I  haven't  any  of  my  own. 
I  never  married.  People  laugh  at  me 
sometimes  about  them  because — be- 
cause— ' 


1 


'THEY' 


35 


'Because  they're  savages, '  I  returned. 
'It's  nothing  to  fret  for.  That  sort 
laugh  at  everything  that  isn't  in  their 
own  fat  lives.  * 

*I  don't  know.  How  should  I?  I 
only  don't  like  being  laughed  at  about 
them.  It  hurts;  and  when  one  can't 
see.  ...  I  don't  want  to  seem  silly, ' 
her  chin  quivered  like  a  child's  as  she 
spoke,  'but  we  blindies  have  only  one 
skin,  I  think.  Ever3rthing  outside  hits 
straight  at  our  souls.  It's  different  with 
you.  You've  such  good  defences  in 
your  eyes — looking  out — before  any  one 
can  really  pain  you  in  your  soul.  People 
forget  that  with  us. ' 

I  was  silent  reviewing  that  inexhaust- 
ible matter — the  more  than  inherited 
(since  it  is  also  carefully  taught)  brutality 
of  the  Christian  peoples,  beside  which 
the  mere  heathendom  of  the  West 
Coast   nigger  is    clean    and    restrained. 


1 


THEY'  36 

It  led  me  a  long  distance  into  my- 
self. 

'Don't  do  that!'  she  said  of  a  sudden, 
putting  her  hands  before  her  eyes. 

'What?' 

She  made  a  gesture  with  her  hand. 

'That!  It's — it's  all  purple  and  black. 
Don't!     That  colour  hurts. ' 

'But,  how  in  the  world  do  you  know 
about  colours?'  I  exclaimed,  for  here 
was  a  revelation  indeed. 

'Colours  as  colours?'  she  asked. 

'No.  Those  Colours  which  you  saw 
just  now.' 

'You  know  as  well  as  I  do, '  she 
laughed,  'else  you  wouldn't  have  asked 
that  question.  They  aren't  in  the  world 
at  all.  They're  in  you — when  you  went 
so  angry. 

'D  'you  mean  dull  purplish  patches, 
like  port  wine  mixed  with  inki*'  I  said. 

'I've  never  seen  ink  or  port  wine,  but 


1 


THEY'  37 

the  colours  aren't  mixed.  They  are 
separate — all  separate. ' 

'Do  you  mean  black  streaks  and  jags 
across  the  purple  ? ' 

She  nodded.  'Yes — if  they  are  like 
this, '  and  zig-zagged  her  finger  again, 
'but  it's  more  red  than  purple — that 
bad  colour. ' 

'And  what  are  the  colours  at  the  top 
of  the — whatever  you  see?' 

Slowly  she  leaned  forward  and  traced 
on  the  rug  the  figure  of  the  Egg  itself. 

'I  see  them  so, '  she  said,  pointing 
with  a  grass  stem,  'white,  green,  yellow, 
red,  purple,  and  when  people  are  angry 
or  bad,  black  across  the  red — as  you  were 
just  now. ' 

'Who  told  you  anything  about  it — 
in  the  beginning  ? '  I  demanded. 

'About  the  Colours?  No  one.  I  used 
to  ask  what  colours  were  when  I  was 
little — in       table-covers     and     curtains 


THEY'  38 

and  carpets,  you  see — because  some 
colours  hurt  me  and  some  made  me 
happy.  People  told  me;  and  when  I 
got  older  that  was  how  I  saw  people. ' 
Again  she  traced  the  outline  of  the  Egg 
which  it  is  given  to  very  few  of  us  to 
see. 

'All  by  yourself  ? '  I  repeated. 

'All  by  myself.  There  wasn't  any 
one  else.  I  only  found  out  afterwards 
that  other  people  did  not  see  the 
Colours. ' 

She  leaned  against  the  tree-bole  plait- 
ing and  unplaiting  chance- plucked  grass 
stems.  The  children  in  the  wood  had 
drawn  nearer.  I  could  see  them,  with 
the  tail  of  my  eye,  frolicking  like 
squirrels. 

'Now  I  am  sure  you  will  never  laugh 
at  me, '  she  went  on  after  a  long  silence. 
'Nor  at  them. ' 

'Goodness — no!'     I   cried,    jolted   out 


THEY'  39 

of  my  train  of  thought.  'A  man  who 
laughs  at  a  child — unless  the  child  is 
laughing  too — is  a  heathen ! ' 

*I  didn't  mean  that,  of  course.  You'd 
never  laugh  at  children,  but  I  thought — 
I  used  to  think — that  perhaps  you  might 
laugh  about  them.  So  now  I  beg  your 
pardon.  .  .  .  What  are  you  going 
to  laugh  at?' 

I  had  made  no  sound,  but  she 
knew. 

'At  the  notion  of  your  begging  my 
pardon.  If  you  had  done  your  duty  as 
a  pillar  of  the  State  and  a  landed  pro- 
prietress you  ought  to  have  summoned 
me  for  trespass  when  I  barged  through 
your  woods  the  other  day.  It  was  dis- 
graceful of  me— inexcusable. ' 

She  looked  at  me,  her  head  against 
the  tree  trunk — long  and  steadfastly — 
this  woman  who  could  see  the  naked 
soul. 


THEY'  40 

'How  curious, '  she  half  whispered. 
'How  very  curious. ' 

'Why,  what  have  I  done?' 

'You  don't  understand  .  .  .  and 
yet  you  understood  about  the  Colours. 
Don't  you  understand?' 

She  spoke  with  a  passion  that  nothing 
had  justified,  and  I  faced  her  bewild- 
eredly  as  she  rose.  The  children  had 
gathered  themselves  in  a  roundel  behind 
a  bramble  bush.  One  sleek  head  bent 
over  something  smaller,  and  the  set  of 
the  little  shoulders  told  me  that  fingers 
were  on  lips.  They,  too,  had  some 
child's  tremendous  secret.  I  alone  was 
hopelessly  astray  there  in  the  broad  sun- 
light. 

'No, '  I  said,  and  shook  my  head  as 
though  the  dead  eyes  could  note.  'What 
ever  it  is,  I  don't  understand  yet.  Per- 
haps I  shall  later — if  you'll  let  me  come 
again. ' 


THEY '  41 

'You  will  come  again, '  she  answered. 
'You  will  surely  come  again  and  walk 
in  the  wood.  ' 

'Perhaps  the  children  will  know  me 
well  enough  by  that  time  to  let  me  play 
with  them — as  a  favour.  You  know 
what  children  are  like. ' 

'It  isn't  a  matter  of  favour  but  of 
right, '  she  replied,  and  while  I  wondered 
what  she  meant,  a  dishevelled  woman 
plunged  round  the  bend  of  the  road, 
loose-haired,  purple,  almost  lowing  with 
agony  as  she  ran.  It  was  my  rude,  fat 
friend  of  the  sweetmeat  shop.  The 
blind  woman  heard  and  stepped  forward. 
'What  is  it,  Mrs.  Madehurst?'  she 
asked. 

The  woman  flung  her  apron  over  her 
head  and  literally  grovelled  in  the  dust, 
crying  that  her  grandchild  was  sick  to 
death,  that  the  local  doctor  was  away 
fishing,  that  Jenny  the  mother  was  at 


the  woman  fi.ung  111- n  aik-dn  ()\hk  hi-.r  head  am)  ].l  i  er  ally 
c;kovelled  in  the  dust. 


THEY'  43 

her  wits'  end,  and  so  forth,  with  repe- 
titions and  bellowings. 

'Where's  the  next  nearest  doctor?' 
I  asked  between  paroxysms. 

'Madden  will  tell  you.  Go  round  to 
the  house  and  take  him  with  you.  I'll 
attend  to  this.  Be  quick!'  She  half 
supported  the  fat  woman  into  the  shade. 
In  two  minutes  I  was  blowing  all  the 
horns  of  Jericho  under  the  front  of  the 
House  Beautiful,  and  Madden,  from  the 
pantry,  rose  to  the  crisis  like  a  butler 
and  a  man. 

A  quarter  of  an  hour  at  illegal 
speeds  caught  us  a  doctor  five  miles 
away.  Within  the  half-hour  we  had 
decanted  him,  much  interested  in 
motors,  at  the  door  of  the  sweetmeat 
shop,  and  drew  up  the  road  to  await 
the  verdict. 

'Useful  things  cars, '  said  Madden,  all 
man   and   no   butler.     'If   I'd   had   one 


THEY'  44 

when  mine  took  sick  she  wouldn't  have 
died. ' 

'How  was  it?'     I  asked. 

'Croup.  Mrs.  Madden  was  away.  No 
one  knew  what  to  do.  I  drove  eight 
miles  in  a  tax-cart  for  the  doctor.  She 
was  choked  when  we  came  back.  This 
car  'd  ha'  saved  her.  She'd  have  been 
close  on  ten  now. ' 

'I'm  sorry, '  I  said.  'I  thought  you 
were  rather  fond  of  children  from  what 
you  told  me  going  to  the  cross-roads  the 
other  day. ' 

'Have  you  seen  'em  again,  Sir — this 
mornin'  ?  ' 

"Yes,  but  they're  well  broke  to  cars. 
I  couldn't  get  any  of  them  within  twenty 
yards  of  it. ' 

He  looked  at  me  carefully  as  a  scout 
considers  a  stranger — not  as  a  menial 
should  lift  his  eyes  to  his  divinely  ap- 
pointed superior. 


'THEY'  45 

/  *I  wonder  why, '  he  said  just  above 
'the  breath  that  he  drew. 

We  waited  on.  A  Hght  wind  from 
the  sea  faltered  up  and  down  the  long 
lines  of  the  woods,  and  the  wayside 
grasses,  whitened  already  with  sum- 
mer dust,  rose  and  bowed  in  sallow 
waves. 

A  woman  wiping,  the  suds  off  her  arms, 
came  out  of  the  cottage  next  the  sweet- 
meat shop. 

'I've  be'n  listenin'  in  de  back-yard, ' 
she  said  cheerilx.  'He  says  Arthur's 
unaccountable  bad.  Did  ye  hear  him 
shruck  just  now?  Unaccountable  bad. 
I  reckon  t'will  come  Jenny's  turn  to 
walk  in  de  wood  nex'  week  along,  Mr. 
Madden. ' 

'Excuse  me.  Sir,  but  your  lap-robe 
is  slipping, '  said  Madden  deferentially. 
The  woman  started,  dropped  a  curtsey, 
and  hurried  away. 


'THEY'  46 

'What  does  she  mean  by  "walking 
in  the  wood?  "  '     I  asked. 

'It  must  be  some  saying  they  use 
hereabouts.  I'm  from  Norfolk  myself, ' 
said  Madden.  'They're  an  independent 
lot  in  this  country.  She  took  you  for  a 
chauffeur,  Sir. ' 

I  saw  the  Doctor  come  out  of  the  cot- 
tage followed  by  a  draggle-tailed  wench 
who  clung  to  his  arm  as  though  he  could 
make  treaty  for  her  with  Death.  'Dat 
sort, '  she  wailed — 'dey're  just  as  much 
to  us  dat  has  'em  as  if  dey  was  lawful 
bom.  Just  as  much^ust  as  much! 
An'  God  he'd  be  just  as  pleased  if  you 
saved  'un.  Doctor.  Don't  take  it  from 
me.  Miss  Florence  will  tell  ye  de  very 
same.     Don't  leave  'im.  Doctor!' 

'I  know,  I  know,'  said  the  man;  'but 
he'll  be  quite  for  a  while  now.  We'll 
get  the  nurse  and  the  medicine  as  fast 
as  we  can. '     He  signalled  me  to  come 


1    SAW    I'HK    UuCrOK    Uli.Mli   OUT    OK    1  Hli  COTTAGE   KOI-l-OUEl)    l;V    A 
IJKAGGLE-TAII.ED  WENCH. 


THEY'  48 

forward  with  the  car  and  I  strove  not 
to  be  privy  to  what  followed.  But  I 
saw  the  girls'  face,  blotched  and  frozen 
with  grief,  and  I  felt  the  hand  without 
a  ring  clutching  at  my  knees  when  we 
moved  away. 

The  Doctor  was  a  man  of  some  humour, 
for  I  remember  he  claimed  my  car  under 
the  Oath  of  ^sculapius,  and  used  it  and 
me  without  mercy.  First  we  convoyed 
Mrs.  Madehurst  and  the  blind  woman  to 
wait  by  the  sick  bed  till  the  nurse  should 
come.  Next  we  invaded  a  neat  county 
town  for  prescriptions  (the  Doctor  said 
the  trouble  was  cerebro-spinal  menin- 
gitis), and  when  the  County  Institute, 
banked  and  flanked  with  scared  market 
cattle,  reported  itself  out  of  nurses  for  the 
moment  we  literally  flung  ourselves  loose 
upon  the  county.  We  conferred  with 
the  owners  of  great  houses — magnates 
at  the  ends  of  overarching  avenues  whose 


THEY'  49 

big-boned  womenfolk  strode  away  from 
their  tea-tables  to  listen  to  the  imperious 
Doctor.  At  last  a  white-haired  lady- 
sitting  under  a  cedar  of  Lebanon  and 
surrounded  by  a  court  of  magnificent 
orzois — all  hostile  to  motors — gave  the 
Doctor,  who  received  them  as  from  a 
princess,  written  orders  which  we  bore 
many  miles  at  top  speed,  through  a  park, 
to  a  French  nunnery,  where  we  took 
over  in  exchange  a  pallid-faced  and 
trembling  Sister.  She  knelt  at  the  bot- 
tom of  the  tonneau  telling  her  beads 
without  pause  till,  by  short-cuts  of  the 
Doctor's  invention,  we  had  her  to  the 
sweetmeat  shop  once  more.  It  was  a 
long  afternoon  crowded  with  mad  epi- 
sodes that  rose  and  dissolved  like  the  dust 
of  our  wheels;  cross-sections  of  remote 
and  incomprehensible  lives  through  which 
we  raced  at  right  angles;  and  I  went 
home  in  the  dusk,  wearied  out,  to  dream 


AT    LAST    A    WHITK-HAIKED    l.ADY    SITTING   UNDER    A   CliDAR    OF    LUISANON. 


'THEY'  51 

of  the  clashing  horns  of  cattle;  round- 
eyed  nuns  walking  in  a  garden  of  graves ; 
pleasant  tea-parties  beneath  shaded  trees ; 
the  carbolic-scented,  grey-painted  cor- 
ridors of  the  County  Institute;  the  steps 
of  shy  children  in  the  wood,  and  the  hands 
that  clung  to  my  knees  as  the  motor  be- 
gan to  move. 


I  had  intended  to  return  in  a  day  or 
two,  but  it  pleased  Fate  to  hold  me  from 
that  side  of  the  county,  on  many  pre- 
texts, till  the  elder  and  the  wild  rose  had 
fruited.  There  came  at  last  a  brilliant 
day,  swept  clear  from  the  southwest, 
that  brought  the  hills  within  hand's 
reach — a  day  of  unstable  airs  and  high 
filmy  clouds.  Through  no  merit  of  my 
own  I  was  free,  and  set  the  car  for  the 
the  third  time  on  that  known  road.  As 
I  reached  the  crest  of  the  Downs  I  felt 


THEY'  52 

the  soft  air  change,  saw  it  glaze  under 
the  sun;  and,  looking  down  at  the  sea, 
in  that  instant  beheld  the  blue  of  the 
Channel  turn  through  polished  silver  and 
dulled  steel  to  dingy  pewter.  A  laden 
collier  hugging  the  coast  steered  out- 
ward for  deeper  water,  and,  across  copper- 
coloured  haze,  I  saw  sails  rise  one  by  one 
on  the  anchored  fishing-fleet.  In  a  deep 
dene  behind  me  an  eddy  of  sudden  wind 
drummed  through  sheltered  oaks,  and 
spun  aloft  the  first  dry  sample  of  autumn 
leaves.  When  I  reached  the  beach  road 
the  sea-fog  fumed  over  the  brickfields, 
and  the  tide  was  telling  all  the  groins  of 
the  gale  beyond  Ushant.  In  less  than 
an  hour  summer  England  vanished  in 
chill  grey.  We  were  again  the  shut 
island  of  the  North,  all  the  ships  of  the 
world  bellowing  at  our  perilous  gates; 
and  between  their  outcries  ran  the  piping 


'THEY'  53 

of  bewildered  gulls.  My  cap  dripped 
moisture,  the  folds  of  the  rug  held  it  in 
pools  or  sluiced  it  away  in  runnels,  and 
the  salt-rime  stuck  to  my  lips. 

Inland  the  smell  of  autumn  loaded  the 
thickened  fog  among  the  trees,  and  the 
drip  became  a  continuous  shower.  Yet 
the  late  flowers — mallow  of  the  wayside, 
scabious  of  the  field,  and  dahlia  of  the 
garden — showed  gay  in  the  mist,  and 
beyond  the  sea's  breath  there  was  little 
sign  of  decay  in  the  leaf.  Yet  in  the 
villages  of  the  house  the  doors  were  all 
open,  and  bare-legged,  bare-headed  child- 
ren sat  at  ease  on  the  damp  doorsteps  to 
shout  'pip-pip'  at  the  stranger. 

I  made  bold  to  call  at  the  sweetmeat 
shop,  where  Mrs.  Madehurst  met  me 
with  a  fat  woman's  hospitable  tears. 
Jenny's  child,  she  said,  had  died  two 
days  after  the  nun  had  come.  It  was, 
she  felt,  best  out  of  the  w^ay,  even  though 


'THEY'  54 

insurance  offices,  for  reasons  which  she 
did  not  pretend  to  follow,  would  not 
willingly  insure  such  stray  lives.  'Not 
but  what  Jenny  didn't  tend  to  Arthur 
as  though  he'd  come  all  proper  at  de  end 
of  de  first  year — like  Jenny  herself. ' 
Thanks  to  Miss  Florence,  the  child  had 
been  buried  with  a  pomp,  which,  in  Mrs. 
Madehurst's  opinion,  more  than  covered 
the  small  irregularity  of  its  birth.  She 
described  the  coffin,  within  and  without, 
the  glass  hearse,  and  the  evergreen  lining 
of  the  grave. 

'But  how's  the  mother?'  I  asked. 

'Jenny?  Oh,  she'll  get  over  it.  I've 
felt  dat  way  with  one  or  two  o'  my  own. 
She'll  get  over.  She's  walkin'  in  de 
wood  now. ' 

'In  this  weather?' 

Mrs.  Madehurst  looked  at  me  with 
narrowed  eyes  across  the  counter. 

*I   dunno  but   it  opens  de  'eart  like. 


•'  I    DUNNO    nUT    IT    Ol'ENS    HE  'eAKT    I.IKE.      VES,    IT   OI'ENS    DE    EAKT. 


THEY'  56 

Yes,  it  opens  de  'eart.  Dat's  where 
losin'  and  bearin'  comes  so  alike  in  de 
long  run,  we  do  say. ' 

Now  the  wisdom  of  the  old  wives  is 
greater  than  that  of  all  the  Fathers,  and 
this  last  oracle  sent  me  thinking  so  ex- 
tendedly  as  I  went  up  the  road,  that  I 
nearly  ran  over  a  woman  and  a  child  at 
the  wooded  corner  by  the  lodge  gates 
of  the  House  Beautiful. 

'Awful  weather!'  I  cried,  as  I  slowed 
dead  for  the  turn. 

'Not  so  bad, '  she  answered  placidly 
out  of  the  fog.  'Mine's  used  to 
'un.  You'll  find  yours  indoors,  I 
reckon. ' 

Indoors,  Madden  received  me  with 
professional  courtesy,  and  kind  inquiries 
for  the  health  of  the  motor,  which  he 
would  put  under  cover. 

I  waited  in  a  still,  nut-brown  hall, 
pleasant  with  late  flowers  and  warmed 


THEY'  57 

with  a  delicious  wood  fire — a  place  of 
good  influence  and  great  peace.  (Men 
and  women  may  sometimes,  after  great 
effort,  achieve  a  creditable  lie;  but  the 
house,  which  is  their  temple,  cannot 
tell  anything  save  the  truth  of  those 
who  have  lived  in  it.)  A  child's  cart 
and  a  doll  lay  on  the  black-and-white 
floor,  where  a  rug  had  been  kicked  back. 
I  felt  that  the  children  had  only  just 
hurried  away — to  hide  themselves,  most 
like,  in  the  many  turns  of  the  great 
adzed  staircase  that  climbed  statelily 
out  of  the  hall,  or  to  crouch  at  gaze 
behind  the  lions  and  roses  of  the  carven 
gallery  above.  Then  I  heard  her  voice 
above  me,  singing  as  the  blind  sing — 
from  the  soul: — 

In  the  pleasant  orchard-closes 

And  all  my  early  summer  came  back  at 
the  call. 


'THEY'  58 

In  the  pleasant  orchard-closes, 
God  bless  all  our  gains,  say  we — 

But  may  God  bless  all  our  losses, 
Better  suits  with  our  degree. 

She  dropped  the  marring  fifth  line,  and 
repeated — 

Better  suits  with  our  degree! 

I  saw  her  lean  over  the  gallery,  her 
Hnked  hands  white  as  pearl  against  the 
oak. 

'Is  that  you — from  the  other  side  of 
the  county? '  she  called. 

'Yes,  me — from  the  other  side  of  the 
county, '  I  answered,  laughing. 

'What  a  long  time  before  you  had  to 
come  here  again. '  She  ran  down  the 
stairs,  one  hand  lightly  touching  the 
broad  rail.  'It's  two  months  and  four 
days.     Summer's  gone!' 

'I  meant  to  come  before,  but  Fate 
prevented.  * 


THEY'  59 

'I  knew  it.  Please  do  something  to 
that  fire.  They  won't  let  me  play  with 
it,  but  I  can  feel  it's  behaving  badly. 
Hit  it!' 

I  looked  on  either  side  of  the  deep 
fireplace,  and  found  but  a  half-charred 
hedge-stake  with  which  I  punched  a  black 
log  into  flame. 

'It  never  goes  out,  day  or  night, '  she 
said,  as  though  explaining.  'In  case 
any  one  comes  in  with  cold  toes,  you 
see. ' 

'It's  even  lovelier  inside  than  it  was 
out,  '  I  murmured.  The  red  light 
poured  itself  along  the  age- polished 
dusky  panels  till  the  Tudor  roses  and 
lions  of  the  gallery  took  colour  and 
motion.  An  old  eagle-topped  convex 
mirror  gathered  the  picture  into  its 
mysterious  heart,  distorting  afresh  the 
distorted  shadows,  and  curving  the 
gallery  lines  into  the  curves  of  a  ship. 


THEY'  60 

The  day  was  shutting  down  in  half  a 
gale  as  the  fog  turned  to  stringy  scud. 
Through  the  uncurtained  mullions  of 
the  broad  window  I  could  see  the  valiant 
horsemen  of  the  lawn  rear  and  recover 
against  the  wind  that  pelted  them  with 
legions  of  dead  leaves. 

'Yes,  it  must  be  beautiful, '  she  said. 
'Would  you  like  to  go  over  it?  There's 
still  light  enough  upstairs. ' 

I  followed  her  up  the  unflinching, 
wagon-wide  staircase  to  the  gallery 
whence  opened  the  thin  fluted  Eliza- 
bethan doors. 

'Feel  how  they  put  the  latches  low 
down  for  the  sake  of  the  children, '  She 
swung  a  light  door  inward. 

'By  the  way,  where  are  they?'  I 
asked.  'I  haven't  even  heard  them 
to-day. ' 

She  did  not  answer  at  once.  Then, 
'I  can  only  hear  them, '  she  replied  softly. 


'THEY'  6i 

'This  is  one  of  their  rooms — everything 
ready,  you  see. ' 

She  pointed  into  a  heavily-timbered 
room.  There  were  Httle  low  gate-tables 
and  children's  chairs.  A  doll's  house, 
its  hooked  front  half  open,  faced  a 
great  dappled  rocking-horse,  from  whose 
padded  saddle  it  was  but  a  child's 
scramble  to  the  broad  window-seat 
overlooking  the  lawn.  A  toy  gun 
lay  in  a  corner  beside  a  gilt  wooden 
cannon. 

'Surely  they've  only  just  gone, '  I 
whispered.  In  the  failing  light  a  door 
creaked  cautiously.  I  heard  the  rustle 
of  a  frock  and  the  patter  of  feet — quick 
feet  through  a  room  beyond. 

*I  heard  that! '  she  cried  triumphantly. 
'Did  you?  Children,  oh,  children!  Where 
are  you?' 

The  voice  filled  the  walls  that  held  it 
lovingly   to   the  last   perfect   note,    but 


THIS  IS  <i\i-:  iiF  TiiF.iR  KdoMs     i;vi:i;vTMiN(;  kkady   vou  sue. 


'THEY'  63 

there  came  no  answering  shout  such  as 
I  had  heard  in  the  garden.  We  hurried 
on  from  room  to  oak-floored  room;  up 
a  step  here,  down  three  steps  there; 
among  a  maze  of  passages;  always 
mocked  by  our  quarry.  One  might  as 
well  have  tried  to  work  an  unstopped 
warren  with  a  single  ferret.  There 
were  bolt-holes  innumerable — recesses  in 
walls,  embrasures  of  deep-slitten  win- 
dows now  filled  up,  whence  they  could 
start  up  behind  us ;  and  abandoned  fire- 
places, six  feet  deep  in  the  masonry,  as 
well  as  the  tangle  of  communicating 
doors.  Above  all,  they  had  the  twilight 
for  their  helper  in  our  game.  I  had 
caught  one  or  two  joyous  chuckles  of 
evasion,  and  once  or  twice  had  seen  the 
silhouette  of  a  child's  frock  against  some 
darkening  window  at  the  end  of  a  pas- 
sage; but  we  returned  empty-handed 
to   the   gallery,    just   as   a   middle-aged 


'THEY'  64 

woman  was  setting  a  lamp  in  its 
niche. 

*No,  I  haven't  seen  her  either  this 
evening,  Miss  Florence,  *  I  heard  her 
say,  'but  that  Turpin  he  says  he  wants 
to  see  you  about  his  shed. ' 

'Oh,  Mr.  Turpin  must  want  to  see  me 
very  badly.  Tell  him  to  come  to  the 
hall,  Mrs.  Madden. ' 

I  looked  down  into  the  hall  whose 
only  light  was  the  dulled  fire;  and  deep 
in  the  shadow  I  saw  them  at  last.  They 
must  have  slipped  down  while  we  were 
in  the  passages,  and  now  thought  them- 
selves perfectly  hidden  behind  an  old 
gilt  leather  screen.  By  child's  law,  my 
fruitless  chase  was  as  good  as  an  intro- 
duction, but  since  I  had  taken  so  much 
trouble,  I  resolved  to  force  them  to 
come  forward  later  by  the  trick,  which 
children  detest,  of  pretending  not  to 
notice  them.     They  lay  close,  in  a  little 


riii':v   Mrsr   iia\':-: 


I W  \     Willi 


Mil-;    [•.\.s-<Av,l-. 


'THEY'  66 

huddle,  no  more  than  shadows  except 
when  a  quick  flame  betrayed  a  small 
outline. 

'And  now  we'll  have  some  tea, '  she 
said.  'I  believe  I  ought' to  have  offered 
it  you  at  first,  but  one  doesn't  arrive  at 
manners  somehow  when  one  lives  alone 
and  is  considered — h'm — peculiar.*  Then 
with  a  very  pretty  scorn,  'Would  you 
like  a  lamp  to  see  to  eat  by?' 

'The  firelight's  much  pleasanter,  I 
think. '  We  descended  into  that  deli- 
cious gloom  and  Madden  brought  tea. 

I  took  my  chair  in  the  direction  of 
the  screen  ready  to  surprise  or  be  sur- 
prised as  the  game  should  go,  and  at 
her  permission,  since  the  hearth  is  always 
sacred,  bent  forward  to  play  with  the  fire. 

'Where  do  you  get  these  beautiful 
short  fagots  from  ? '  I  asked  idly.  'Why, 
they  are  tallies ! ' 

'Of  course, '  she  replied.     'As  I  can't 


THEY '  68 

read  or  write  I'm  driven  back  on  the 
early  English  tally  for  my  accounts. 
Give  me  one  and  I'll  tell  you  what  it 
meant. ' 

I  passed  her  an  unburned  hazel-tally, 
about  a  foot  long,  and  she  ran  her  thumb 
down  the  nicks. 

'This  is  the  milk- record  for  the  home 
farm  for  the  month  of  April  last  year, 
in  gallons, '  said  she.  *I  don't  know 
what  I  should  have  done  without  tallies. 
An  old  forester  of  mine  taught  me  the 
system.  It's  out  of  date  now  for  every 
one  else;  but  my  tenants  respect  it. 
One  of  them's  coming  now  to  see  me. 
Oh,  it  doesn't  matter.  He  has  no  busi- 
ness here  out  of  office  hours.  He's 
a  greedy,  ignorant  man — very  greedy 
or — he  wouldn't  come  here  after 
dark. ' 

'Have  you  much  land  then?* 

'Only  a  couple  of  hundred   acres   in 


THEY'  69 

hand,  thank  goodness.  The  other  six 
hundred  are  nearly  all  let  to  folk  who 
knew  my  folk  before  me;  but  this  Tur- 
pin  is  quite  a  new  man — and  a  highway 
robber. ' 

'But  are  you  sure  I  shan't  be ?* 

'Certainly  not.  You  have  the  right. 
He  hasn't*  any  children. ' 

'Ah,  the  children!'  I  said,  and  slid 
my  low  chair  back  till  it  nearly  touched 
the  screen  that  hid  them.  'I  wonder 
whether  they'll  come  out  for  me. ' 

There  was  a  murmur  of  voices — 
Madden' s  and  a  deeper  note — at  the  low, 
dark  side  door,  and  a  ginger-headed, 
canvas-gaitered  giant  of  the  unmistak- 
able tenant-farmer  type  stumbled  or 
was  pushed  in. 

'Come  to  the  fire,  Mr.  Turpin, '  she 
said. 

'If — if  you  please,  Miss,  I'll — I'll  be 
quite  as  well  by  the  door. '     He  clung 


THEY'  70 

to  the  latch  as  he  spoke  like  a  frightened 
child.  Of  a  sudden  I  realized  that  he 
was  in  the  grip  of  some  almost  over- 
powering fear. 

'Well?'  . 

'About  that  new  shed  for  the  young 
stock — that  was  all.  These  first  au- 
tumn storms  settin'  in  .  .  .  but  I'll 
come  again,  Miss. '  His  teeth  did  not 
chatter  much  more  than  the  door-latch. 

'I  think  not,  she  answered,  levelly. 
The  new  shed — m'm.  What  did  my 
agent  write  you  on  the  15th?' 

'I — fancied  p'raps  that  if  I  came  to 
see  you — ma — man  to  man  like,  Miss. 
But ' 

His  eyes  rolled  into  every  corner  of 
the  room  wide  with  horror.  He  half 
opened  the  door  through  which  he  had 
entered,  but  I  noticed  that  it  was  shut 
again — from  without  and  firmly. 

'He    wrote    what    I    told    him, '    she 


THEY'  71 

went  on.  'You  are  overstocked  al- 
ready. Dunnett's  Farm  never  carried 
more  than  fifty  bullocks — even  in  Mr. 
Wright's  time.  And  he  used  cake. 
You've  sixty-seven  and  you  don't  cake. 
You've  broken  the  lease  in  that  respect. 
You'r  dragging  the  heart  out  of  the 
farm. ' 

'I'm — I'm  getting  some  minerals — 
superphosphates— next  week.  I've  as 
good  as  ordered  a  truck-load  already. 
I'll  go  down  to  the  station  to-morrow 
about  'em.  Then  I  can  come  and  see 
you  man  to  man  like,  Miss,  in  the  day- 
light. .  .  .  That  gentleman's  not 
going  away,  is  he?'  He  almost 
shrieked. 

I  had  only  slid  the  chair  a  little  farther 
back,  reaching  behind  me  to  tap  on  the 
leather  of  the  screen,  but  he  jumped  like 
a  rat. 

'No.       Please     attend     to     me,     Mr. 


'THEY' 


72 


Turpin. '  She  turned  in  her  chair  and 
faced  him  with  his  back  to  the  door. 
It  was  an  old  and  sordid  Httle  piece  of 
scheming  that  she  forced  from  him — 
his  plea  for  the  new  cow-shed  at  his  land- 
lady's expense,  that  he  might  with  the 
covered  manure  pay  his  next  year's  rent 
out  of  the  valuation  after,  as  she  made 
clear,  he  had  bled  the  enriched  pastures 
to  the  bone.  I  could  not  but  admire 
the  intensity  of  his  greed,  when  I  saw 
him  out-facing  for  its  sake  whatever 
terror  it  was  that  ran  wet  on  his  fore- 
head. 

I  ceased  to  tap  the  leather — was,  in- 
deed, calculating  the  cost  of  the  shed — 
when  I  felt  my  relaxed  hand  taken  and 
turned  softly  between  the  soft  hands  of 
a  child.  So  at  last  I  had  triumphed. 
In  a  moment  I  would  turn  and  acquaint 
myself  with  those  quick-footed  wan- 
derers.    .     .     . 


•THEY'  73 

The  little  brushing  kiss  fell  in  the 
centre  of  my  palm — as  a  gift  on  which 
the  fingers  were,  once,  expected  to  close: 
as  the  all-faithful  half-reproachful  sig- 
nal of  a  waiting  child  not  used  to  neglect 
even  when  grown-ups  were  busiest — a 
fragment  of  the  mute  code  devised  very 
long  ago. 

Then  I  knew.  Then  it  was  as  though 
I  had  known  from  the  first  day  when  I 
looked  across  the  lawn  at  the  high 
window. 

I  heard  the  door  shut.  The  woman 
turned  to  me  in  silence,  and  I  felt  that 
she  knew. 

What  time  passed  after  this  I  cannot 
say.  I  was  roused  by  the  fall  of  a  log, 
and  mechanically  rose  to  put  it  back. 
Then  I  returned  to  my  place  in  the  chair 
very  close  to  the  screen. 

'Now  you  understand, '  she  whispered, 
across  the  packed  shadows. 


THEY'  75 

*Yes,  I  understand — now.  Thank 
you.* 

*I — I  only  hear  them. '  She  bowed 
her  head  in  her  hands.  *I  have  no  right, 
you  know — no  other  right.  I  have 
neither  borne  nor  lost — neither  borne 
nor  lost!' 

'Be  very  glad  then,  *  said  I,  for  my 
soul  was  torn  open  within  me. 

'Forgive  me!' 

She  was  still,  and  I  went  back  to  my 
sorrow  and  my  joy. 

*It  was  because  I  loved  them  so, '  she 
said  at  last,  brokenly.  'That  was  why 
it  was,  even  from  the  first — even  before 
I  knew  that  they — they  were  all  I  should 
ever  have.     And  I  loved  them  so ! ' 

She  stretched  out  her  arms  to  the 
shadows  and  the  shadows  within  the 
shadow. 

'They  came  because  I  loved  them — 
because     I    needed    them.     I — I    must 


'THEY'  76 

have  made  them  come.  Was  that 
wrong,  think  you?  Did  I  wrong 
any  one  ? ' 

•No— no!' 

*I — I  grant  you  that  the  toys  and — ■ 
and  all  that  sort  of  thing  were  nonsense, 
but — but  I  used  to  so  hate  empty  rooms 
myself  when  I  was  little. '  She  pointed 
to  the  gallery.  'And  the  passages  all 
empty.  .  .  .  And  how  could  I  ever 
bear  the  garden  door  shut  ?    Suppose * 

'Don't !  For  pity's  sake,  don't ! '  I  cried. 
The  twilight  had  brought  a  cold  rain  with 
gusty  squalls  that  plucked  at  the  leaded 
windows. 

'And  the  same  thing  with  keeping 
the  fire  in  all  night.  /  don't  think  it  so 
foolish — do  you?  ' 

I  looked  at  the  broad  brick  hearth; 
saw,  through  tears  I  believe,  that  there 
was  no  unpassable  iron  on  or  near  it; 
and  bowed  my  head. 


THEY'  77 

*I  did  all  that  and  lots  of  other  things 
— just  to  make  believe.  Then  they  came. 
I  heard  them,  but  I  didn't  know  that 
they  were  not  mine  by  right  till  Mrs. 
Madden  told  me ' 

The  butler's  wife  ?     What  ? ' 

'One  of  them — I  heard — she  saw.  And 
knew.  Hers!  Not  for  me.  I  didn't 
know  at  first.  Perhaps  I  was  jealous. 
Afterwards,  I  began  to  understand  that 
it  was  only  because  I  loved  them,  not 

because .  .  .Oh,  you  must  bear  or 

lose, '  she  said  piteously.  There  is  no 
other  way.  And  yet  they  love  me. 
They  must !     Don't  they  ? ' 

There  was  no  sound  in  the  room 
except  the  lapping  voices  of  the  fire,  but 
we  two  listened  intently,  and  she,  at 
least,  took  comfort  from  what  she  heard. 
She  recovered  herself  and  half  rose.  I 
sat  still  in  my  chair  by  the  screen. 

'Don't  think  me   a   wretch   to   whine 


AMI   ^■|-'I■    iiii:y   i.o\'K'MI-;.      riiiv 


'THEY'  79 

about  myself  like  this,  but — but  I'm  all 
in  the  dark,  you  know,  and  you  can 
see. ' 

In  truth  I  could  see,  and  my  vision 
confirmed  me  in  my  resolve,  though 
that  was  like  the  very  parting  of  spirit 
and  flesh.  Yet  a  little  longer  I  would 
stay  since  it  was  the  last  time. 

'You  think  it  is  wrong,  then?'  she 
cried  sharply,  though  I  had  said 
nothing. 

'Not  for  you.  A  thousand  times  no. 
For  you  it  is  right.  ...  I  am  grateful 
to  you  beyond  words.  For  me  it  would 
be  wrong.     For  me  only.     .     .     .  * 

'Why?'  she  said,  but  passed  her  hand 
before  her  face  as  she  had  done  at  oui 
second  meeting  in  the  wood.  'Oh,  I 
see, '  she  went  on  simply  as  a  child.  'For 
you  it  would  be  wrong.  *  Then  with  a 
little  indrawn  laugh,  'and,  d'you  remem- 
ber, I  called  you  lucky — once — at  first. 


♦THEY'  80 

You    who     must     never     come     here 
again!' 

She  left  me  to  sit  a  Httle  longer  by  the 
screen,  and  I  heard  the  sound  of  her  feet 
die  out  along  the  gallery  above. 


THE   END 


This  book  is 

DUE  on  tlie  last  date  stamped  'below 

r^cj  3  0   1929 

1  dw  / 

mar  .           ! 

I^it)(l»l9»' 

nOV  1      1929 

JUL            •W 

Illl199i 

KOV  2  7  1921S 

MAR  1  0  1943 

1     1930 

($ji^U^  f\  ^  f"- 

juii  i^      1930 

V^^ 

*  " 

■  '■  '^  m, 

jpV  ^  0  134^ 

"^'^    i  7    193, 

FEB     3  1^47 

AUG  4      19^32 

WIAY2  91957 

^   ■ 

OCT  12  1933 

APR  1 B  19l§ 

^^^  S/^harI 

m  1 7  ^9^5 

"'■*^  'sa* 

"^3F 

lAR  24  lars 

^oct2  2  \m 

SZTD 194111 

/,ti£.0(i{^    ^ 

rooo 

8^1  24  ^93 

6 

F(irm  L-9-35m-8,'28 

6 


.i 


UCLA-Young   Research    Librar 

PR4854   .T34    1909 


L  009   549   204  7 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


A  A  001  421  484  5 


iFORNlA 

/ 
>AL!F. 


